Maids a Plenty
by Nny11
Summary: Hildegard and Mary my orig. char have a chat while cleaning. I own nothing but Mary, her family, and the fishy sofa.


Hildegard always felt odd about speaking with Mary. She found that all she really wanted to do was rattle on about cleaning, cooking, and giving out advice all of which she was sure Mary was sick of. Pursing her lips, Hildegard sat down in an old sofa, only to leap back up in surprise as a dust cloud enveloped her. With a small, frightened 'Oh!' Mary quickly ran over and got Hildegard to a less dusty sitting spot.

"Oh, thank ya' deary. I always forget that that's the fishy one we don't clean." Hildegard puffed and happily leaned back in the armchair. Her back was becoming more troublesome by the minuet it felt. "Sit with me for a moment Mary, nice to take a break for a bit. We've been at it a while."

Mary smiled gratefully and flopped down in another armchair. For a while they sat in a comfortable silence, simply happy to enjoy a break. They had decided to try to clean on the third floor and where almost done. Cracking her neck, Mary glanced over at the blue and white-stripped sofa that she'd rescued Hildegard from. "Hilde," she said, "why is that the fishy one? And why don't we clean it?"

Hildegard gave a small laugh; maybe it was a maid thing, to chatter nonstop about cleaning. "That's the one that Mr. Van Dort gave to Victor thinking he had fond memories of it." She could still see Mary's confusion and continued, "He fell into one of the vats of fish once and when they…well…he he, fished him out, that was the couch they put him on." She looked at it and chuckled, "It's smelled of fish ever since, no matter how many times you clean it. No one noticed at the factory because, well, the whole place rather smells of it I'm sure."

Mary laughed and then suddenly grimaced. "Oh, wait. Was he, uh, still covered in fish?" Knitting her brow Mary had a feeling she knew the answer.

"Oh yes deary."

"And, did they still sell that fish?" Mary bit her lip.

"Most likely." Hildegard gave a small wink and got up again. "Anyways I've been meaning to ask you, what's your family like? Haven't heard a tiff about them dear, that's why I'm asking."

Mary turned slightly red, and clearing her throat stood up and moved back to the shelf she'd been dusting. "Do you really want to know? Like, you won't stop bugging me till ya' do?"

Hildegard was already back to polishing next to her. "Oh yes," she cooed, "unless you don't want to talk about it right now."

Standing on tiptoe to reach the top Mary sighed, "Nah I can. Well thar's my mum an' da. They have a farm up north, dairy farm. They're simple folk but up there…everyone is." Mary paused to squish a spider that had run out in alarm. "Friendly too, treat everyone like one of our own. Bit pushy though, I think it's from dealing wit each other but," she gave a shrug, "ya' know."

Hildegard nodded and silently realized that was probably where Mary got her stubbornness from as well.

"Then I got me brothers. Two first is Wilson, he's thinkin' of takin' over the farm for ma an' da. He's a bit slow in the head but quick and strong in his body. Quiet too. Bit too quiet if ya ask me. Can barely get three words out of him." Mary rolled her eyes, "He tends to grunt in reply. Nice fellow though and when his hed be up and runnin' he can be very clever and sometimes saucy."

Hildegard gave a laugh at the description in her head. Of course she assumed they were all red heads and freckled like Mary they seemed like a fun, but odd bunch. Then She decided those were her kind of people. She did love the Van Dort's, and if they weren't fun, odd people the world had gone topsy-turvy. "What about your other brother?"

There was a painful pause. "Wilson's the oldest, I'm the mid ground, and…Rembrandt's the youngun."

Hildegard gasped, "Your related to Mr. Rembrandt!?"

"No!" Mary stopped cleaning and sighed. "He's a poet, moved to Venice, and legally changed his name to…Rembrandt Van Gogh."

There was a moment of silence before Hildegard had to say, "But neither of them are-"

"Poets? I know. I know," She moaned.

"Well," Hildegard said, " I'm not here to judge your family miss. But, I'm quite glad we got you I have to say."

Mary gave a small nod and the two went back to silent cleaning for a bit. Then suddenly as if she simply couldn't help herself she blurted out, "He's not even a good poet, and he's probably a waiter in a café somewhere, and-and he well, he's a good man. Odd but great. But not his poetry." And with a final nod she went back to cleaning.

Hildegard blinked multiple times in surprise and then patted the younger woman's arm, "No worries deary, I tend to like odd, but nice folk. And I'd like to read some of his poetry if you have any. I need to send out some late Christmas gifts I suppose." Then she went back to cleaning herself.

After the two had finished the room and cleaned up for dinner they once more found themselves sitting together quietly in their quarters. Hildegard was knitting and Mary was tinkering with a broken clock she liked. Glancing up Mary asked, "Wha' is it, an' who's it for?"

"Oh, this?" Hildegard held up the half done piece. The dark green material was covered in what looked to her like small ropes running vertically on it's front. It was rather small too. "It's a sweater for Rembrandt, I figure as a poet he's probably pretty small, and I imagine he's the only one with black hair so greens a good shade. I assume it must get cold in Venice sometimes."

"Oh," Mary squeaked out. Then with a grateful smile said, "Thank you Hilde."

"Oh deary, don't thank me yet. If he washes it, it'll shrink and then even your skinny little brother will resemble a sausage." And with a wink she went back to knitting.


End file.
